


Rituals

by InjaMorgan



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Spoilers for Battle of Five Armies, everyone is dead sorry, funeral rites, grieving Tauriel, only Trailer spoilers, sad Dwalin, saying farewell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InjaMorgan/pseuds/InjaMorgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle is over, the fighting is done. Some have died, some have lived, and it is now the task of the surviving to care for those who were killed, so that they may find their peace deep in the heart of the mountain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thank you, dear reader, for clicking on this story.
> 
> I know that we all want to escape the BotfA-feels, and I actually wrote this to toughen myself against them. I don't want to bawl my eyes out in the cinema, and I'm sure we all need a little preparation because yes, I expect something like this from you Peter, nothing less.
> 
> I took some liberties with two little scenes from the trailer and interpreted them in a very Kíliel way. Could be I'm right, could be I'm wrong.
> 
> And now, have some tissues.

Never in his life had Dwalin imagined that a bowl of water could be so heavy.

A piece of clean cloth, a chunk of soap, and scented hot water. Balin had told him earlier that he'd already found clean garments; tunics made of rough spun linen in dark blue, the colour of Durin's line. Dori had offered to embroider them with golden thread in their respective patterns, and both Ori and Nori had agreed to help. Bofur, Bifur and Bombur would look for fitting armour and jewellery in the treasury, while Óin and Glóin prepared the tomb, together with a dozen of Dáin's soldiers.

Which left Dwalin to clean the boys from gore and grime, and prepare them for their last journey, just like Bilbo and Balin were doing the same with Thorin in the next tent. It had been a surprise for many of the company when the Hobbit had asked about the dwarvish burial rites, and if he could help in any way, but Dwalin knew what had happened when Thorin said his goodbyes to Bilbo, and that there had been more between his King and the Hobbit than friendship, so at least Dwalin understood why Bilbo felt obliged to assist Balin in the preparations.

However, that left only him to care for the boys, and Dwalin did not know if he could do it. It had been him, him and Thorin, who had taught them everything they knew about fighting and defending, about surviving in the wild and their duties of being princes of Erebor. And he had failed to protect them, like he had promised Thorin, and their mother.

Somebody bumped into him; a human carrying some firewood and not being able to see their own feet. For a moment, Dwalin lost his train of thought when the now lukewarm water in the bowl he was carrying sloshed over his hands, quickly accepted the murmured apology of the embarrassed human, and finally entered the tent.

It was late afternoon outside, with a weak winter sun veiled in clouds, but inside the tent it was still darker, with only a handful of tallow candles and two small braziers lighting the space. Dwalin gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the semi-darkness, and only then spotted the tall shadow standing right in the middle of the tent, close to the two cots on which the boys rested.

“No one is allowed to enter,” he said gruffly, stepping closer, and wondered what a human – or maybe even elf? – was doing in this tent. They had their own dead to mourn, after all. “You should leave.”

“I always wanted to know...” an unmistakable female voice suddenly spoke, a voice Dwalin had heard more than once on the battlefield cry out for Kíli. Only then the figure turned their head, glancing down at Dwalin. “But it's not like anything I had imagined.”

He stared back into the she-elf's even face; in the dim light, her eyes seemed sunken in and almost black, making her look sick and tired. Surely, after such a hard battle they all felt exhausted, and Dwalin didn't know much about elves, but he'd never seen one of the First Born seem so ill.

Nevertheless, her staring gaze made him feel uneasy, so he turned away and put the bowl in his hands down on the ground, resting the scrap of cloth on its rim. “You don't belong here, lassie, and really should go,” he repeated, and busied himself with the now tepid water, showing the lass the cold shoulder in the hope that she'd heed his words. After all, he was right; the lass had known the boys for barely more than a fortnight, and already she believed she had the same obligations and connection to them like he had. Or the same need to blame himself for not protecting them better.  
He was about to dip the cloth in the foamed up water to start his work, when a hand was laid on his shoulder.

“I don't know much about dwarven burials, Master Dwarf,” she said quietly, and once more he felt the need to look at her. “But please, let me help you.”

Even in the flickering light of the weak tallow candles, he could see the wet traces of tears on her cheeks, and Dwalin knew that he'd been wrong.

The she-elf cared, actually cared for two dead dwarves enough to cry.

Or rather just one dwarf.

“Oh lassie,” he sighed, the dots finally connecting in that slow brain of his. She had healed the lad, and promptly lost her heart to him. The stuff for a proper fairy tale, including the bloody and heartbreaking ending. Dwalin really did not know much about elves, but he suspected that they too had a concept of Ones, or Soulbonded, and this she-elf had just lost hers.

Which meant that all the quarrels and disputes between the two peoples didn't matter, at least not right now.

“There should be more light,” he finally said, looking at the brazier close to the boys' heads that was holding nothing more than dull glowing embers by now. The she-elf followed his gaze, and nodded at him in understanding. A bag of coals and bits of wood was standing at the entrance to the tent, as well as some more tallow candles; Dwalin watched her while she lighted them and distributed the fuel between the two braziers, illuminating the whole tent, but most of the candles she put around the cots on which the boys lay.

And then she already stood next to him again, waiting for the next instructions. He looked down at his hand that still grasped the simple cloth, and ripped it in two, handing the elven lass the other part.

“We clean them.” He instinctually moved next to Fíli's still body, placing the bowl with the water between the two boys, whereas the elf remained next to Kíli. “The face and the hair are the most important, begin there.”

After dipping the cloth into the water, he tenderly ran it over Fíli's eyes. He saw the elf copying his every move and hummed in approval. “Next come the arms and hands, and last are the feet,” he continued to explain, still very much occupied with cleaning away the blood on Fíli's forehead. “We hear and see Mahal's creation, shape and form it with our hands and the strength in our arms, and stand on his stone every day in our lives. It's the way we connect with our Maker once again…”

For a second, he hesitated, quarrelling with himself if he should even tell an elf these sacred secrets, and it seemed like the elf had noticed his sudden silence, as she too paused in her work, looking at him.

“And I'm honoured to help you.” She bowed slightly, and he knew that nothing of the things he explained would leave this tent. He nodded in return, and they resumed their work.

The silence around them deepened, both occupied with getting rid of the gore and blood on the boys as gently as possible. When Dwalin was done with Fíli's cheeks and beard, he looked over to the she-elf, who already tried to disentangle Kíli's messy braids.

“No, no, let me show you.” It was clear that she had never braided another's hair, and he briefly wondered if the elves knew anything about the meaning of dwarvish braids, and what an honour it was to do them for the Farewell Rites. Yet his fingers were quicker, and used to handle Kíli's hair that had never followed the lad's will and held no braid longer than a few hours, especially when he'd still been a dwarfling. Thankfully, there was only a little mud glueing the strands together, and Dwalin removed it quickly with wet hands and his cloth. He raised Kíli's head a little to comb the hair better into a comfortable position, using only his fingers though, and then braided the Prince's Plaits, one in front of each ear, which would be later adorned with fitting beads.

“He never wore those,” she stated, carefully letting one of the braids glide through her fingers.

“They're ceremonial,” Dwalin explained, returning to his place beside Fíli. “He would have worn them, when… when Thorin would have been crowned King.” He heaved a sigh, starting to clean a puddle of dried blood off Fíli's blond hair. It had been the boy's own.

The she-elf seemed to watch Dwalin, and then suddenly appeared next to him when he struggled to hold Fíli's head while washing out the blood from his long blond hair. Dwalin nodded at her gratefully, making only short eye-contact before they worked together at cleaning the boy's curls. It was crusted with dried blood, brown and flaky now, so it took them a good while longer, and the water in the bowl had turned dark and murky before Fíli's hair once again looked like brushed brass. Dwalin finished the task by braiding it the same way as Kíli's, tying the ends with bits of string.

“We have to remove their armour next,” he stated, but quickly learnt that this was easier said than done. They tried to remove everything proper first, but soon found that cutting through straps was far quicker than unbuckling them. Without speaking a word, they still worked together as well as the cogs in a clock mechanism. Only when they reached the chain mail did they pause, thinking it to be a problem, until Dwalin found a pair of pliers that somebody had put next to the entrance to the tent, and soon the heavy hauberks were piled on top of ripped leather and dented plate armour.

Both elf and dwarf were breathing heavily by then, looking at the boys who were only clad in bloodstained shift and trousers now.

“Leave those,” Dwalin said as the elf's fingers were already fumbling at the buttons of Kíli's tunic. “Their robes aren't finished yet.”

She looked at him, frowning, but then quickly let go of the fabric, and instead reached once again for water and washing cloth.

Dwalin followed suit. The boy's hands and arms were not as dirty as their faces had been, as both had worn vambraces or even archer gloves in Kíli's case, but it still took them a good while. The she-elf seemed to take extra care with Kíli's fingernails, cleaning each until not a spot of dirt was left on or under them, and Dwalin felt obliged to do the same with Fíli's.

The last step was to take off their shoes. Until this very moment, Dwalin had somehow managed to remove himself from the thought that these were the bodies, the very dead bodies of two dwarves he had known like they were his own sons.

He had crafted these boots. The steel caps, the design, he had even sewed them together. Made them fit so well that neither Fíli nor Kíli ever complained about getting footsore, even after walking across half of Middle-earth.

And now he would remove them, for the last time.

The heavy air in the tent was suddenly choking him, and he collapsed, clutching Fíli's left boot to his chest as if it could safe him.

Dwalin sobbed. A strangled, single sob that hurt in his throat, mirroring the pain he felt in his chest. No battle wound could hurt this much.

They were dead.

Dead.

Dead, just like Thorin, all dead.

When Balin had told him about the price of their victory, Dwalin had raged and screamed and cursed, but only now he allowed himself to cry. Big, heavy tears, falling like rain on Fíli's boot that was strangely still in his hands.

Then two hands brushed over his shoulders, and he looked up into the she-elf's face that was so foreign to him, but his gaze was met with eyes just as red-rimmed as his.

“A secret of my race in exchange for the honour to work beside you, Master Dwarf,” she said, her voice breathy from the tears streaming down her cheeks. “When elves marry, we …. remove each other's shoes as a sign of mutual respect.”

Dwalin blinked, needing a moment to understand the connection, and when he did he pulled the she-elf to his chest, hugging her properly. She seemed reluctant to embrace him, but then relaxed and gently patted Dwalin's back.

“I am sorry,” Dwalin said into her neck, not quite knowing for what he was apologising for; maybe that she had to do something that was actually reserved for her wedding night, and now her lover's body was already cold. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to have his love die in his very arms, and Dwalin desperately chased away the picture of Nori coughing up blood that his mind so readily provided. But the other dwarf was fine, Dwalin knew this, whereas the she-elf had actually seen the life fade from Kíli's eyes.

“Me too,” she replied, letting go of Dwalin, and he did the same.

“You have no reason to apologise, lass.”He shook his head, getting back to his feet, and the she-elf smiled at him sadly, her eyes glazing over once again, but instead of objecting him she pointed at the boys.

“We should finish what we have begun.”

Dwalin nodded in reply, drying the tears on his face with the sleeve of his jacket and taking up the wet cloth once more, while the elf returned to struggling with Kíli's shoes. One last time Dwalin glanced down where Fíli's boot still lay on the ground, still wet from his tears, and then turned to clean the lad's feet.

The following silence between them felt different to before, somehow lighter and easier. Dwalin was glad when he was finished, looking down on Fíli, who was now mostly clean. The wounds in his chest that had killed him would be covered with the fresh tunic, and as a final act he took Fíli's hands and put them on top of each other on the boy's stomach. One could almost imagine he was sleeping.

Almost.

Dwalin looked over to were the elf stood at Kíli's feet, expecting her to stare at the young dwarf's body, but instead she seemed to gaze at something in her hand. He moved closer, curious about what she was holding, but had to stand right next to her to recognise the small stone.

“His mother gave that to him,” he said, looking from the stone to her eyes, but she wasn't crying anymore.

“He never told me her name,” she mumbled absently, turning the stone over and over in her hand.

“Her name is Dís,” Dwalin said, “Did Kíli give it to you?” It was a simple token to remember a promise, but if he the lad had actually given the elf something as important as this...

“Yes,” the she-elf answered, and Dwalin sighed. There still had been a part of him that wouldn't quite believe that Kíli had actually cared as much for the elf as she did apparently for him, but this token was the visible proof of his feelings. If he hadn't died, he might have actually started to court the elf.

“I should give it back,” she suddenly said, putting the stone on the cot next to Kíli as if it was hot and burning her skin, but Dwalin was just as quick to pick it up again.

“He would want you to have it,” Dwalin said, reaching for her hand and folding her fingers around the stone. “It was only his to give, and you should not reject his decision now.”

Dwalin hoped that the she-elf knew that he wasn't just talking about the stone, and indeed, she grasped it tighter, holding it close to her heart.

“Thank you.” The smile on her lips did not reach her eyes, yet Dwalin felt relieved, nodding.

“Thank you for helping me,” he said, gazing at the boys, now prepared for their last journey. “Will you join us at the funeral?”

“I already said my goodbyes, Master Dwarf.” She let the stone vanish into some fold of her tunic. “There is nothing left for me here.”

“Of course,” Dwalin replied, and saw that her eyes still appeared dark and empty even in all the light that filled the room. “Goodbye then.”

“Goodbye Master Dwarf.” She caught him off guard with the little peck to his head, and he was so stunned that he only turned around when she was almost out of the tent already.

“Wait!”

The she-elf paused, facing him one last time. Dwalin's mouth opened and closed, as he wasn't sure what he even wanted from her.

Well, except one little thing.

“I fought next to you and worked next to you, yet I never knew your name.”

She seemed surprised, and for the first time, her smile appeared to be genuine.

“My name is Tauriel, Master Dwarf.”

“Dwalin, at your service.” He bowed deeply, and the offer of service was made honestly. “Farewell, Tauriel of Mirkwood.”

“Not of Mirkwood, not anymore.” She shook her head, and looked over her shoulder, where the dark night sky was visible. “I think I will travel … for a little while.”

Tauriel turned and smiled at him, and then she was gone, leaving Dwalin alone in the tent.

The dwarf took a deep breath, and sent a prayer to Mahal, asking him to guide Tauriel. She would surely need it, wherever her journey might take her, be it to far away countries in the east, to the frosty north, the deserts in the south or maybe even to a ship that would take her west.

Dwalin sighed, feeling weary and tired all of a sudden. He longed for a good ale, a bowl of stew, and his love to lie with tonight.

The funeral would be in the morning, which would come soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> *hands out more tissues* Sorry, so sorry.


End file.
